O T P
by scarletphlame
Summary: JOHNLOCK. A woman moves into the flat next door, one that actually gets along with John and puts up with Sherlock's antics. John thinks Sherlock's interested. As it turns out, he is. Just not with who John expects. ""What was that?" When I look back at Sherlock, his hands are folded under his chin and his eyes are twinkling. "Something new.""
1. Chapter One

Summary: "Sometimes I wish I'd saved her. Sometimes I'm glad I hadn't. Most of the time, it doesn't matter. But she was the best thing that ever happened to us."

Warnings: Homophobia, slash, violence and gore

AN: Please note that this is actually a **Johnlock** fanfiction, not a Sherlock/OC FanFiction. Instead of writing a story where the OC and Sherlock fall in love, I wanted to write a fanfiction where the OC sets up Sherlock and John.

Enjoy...

* * *

><p>Chapter One<p>

"There's a new neighbor moving into 221A," I said.

"We should go and greet her," I said.

"She seems like a nice person," I said.

"She's an old friend of Mrs. Hudson, apparently," I said.

After what purported to be an hour of silence, I asked Sherlock if he was even listening.

In response, Sherlock said nothing. It wasn't all that surprising; after all, Sherlock wasted little thought on the trivial matter of the acclimation of any new neighbor (not that any of them lasted very long).

The first, which had been Mrs. Eliza Standem, aged 63 and retired, had received a heart attack upon walking into 221B with a greeting lasagna. As such, Sherlock was no longer permitted to stand over blood-soaked corpses with a knife in his hand, and the carpets were bleached.

The second victim to move into 221A had effectively been scared off by Sherlock's boredom–a particular vessel of which shot through the wall and into her couch. This enacted the banishment of all guns from 221B–in fact, any of Mrs. Hudson's flats, much to Sherlock's disdain.

And the final before the current, Kitty Cleavon, an avid fan of my blog, had almost driven _Sherlock_ away, with her persistent everyday visits and baskets of inedible cookies and ruined soufflés. It was only upon one of her deliveries–a tin of muffins–when she discovered piles of uneaten goodies stuffed into garbage bags in the kitchen and retreated to her flat a wailing, sobbing mess, proclaiming that the two of them hated her and she never wanted to see them again. _"I cooked you all this stuff and you never even told me you didn't like it!"_

As the inauspicious situation began to slowly unfurl, I wondered if Sherlock was right–if it was best to leave the new neighbor be and let her discover the perils of living in Baker Street herself. So, none the wiser, I allowed myself to forget about it and Sherlock to delve further into his mysteries, both of us living in ill bliss. In fact, it was several weeks later when I remembered there was someone living in the flat beside us to begin with–we'd heard no news from the new neighbor as of yet. Perhaps we lived next to a ghost; which was ridiculous, but not ridiculous enough to send pause to thought. Maybe we lived next to a corpse.

Of course, the incident on May 15th was an entirely different story. I'm not sure I can recall it with perfect clarity, but I do remember the tenseness in the room that followed the arrival of Bridget Gage.

It was nearly noontime when it happened. Sherlock–

* * *

><p>Lestrade brought John's dialogue to an abrupt halt. "You mean to tell me you didn't hear from your new neighbor for weeks?"<p>

John cringed. "Neither of us thought much of it at the moment, I suppose." He scratched the back of his neck.

"A quiet neighbor was ideal," muttered Sherlock. "As close to nonexistent as I could hope for."

John swallowed, hard, forcing down the lump in his throat.

Lestrade leaned back in his chair, looking nonplussed. "Well, go on, then."

* * *

><p>Sherlock was plucking the string of his violin, I believe, and I was in the kitchen making tea for the two of us when there was a knock upon the door. Both of us eyed it suspiciously–neither of us had heard the footsteps upon the stairs and the doorbell had failed to ring. (Which wasn't much of a surprise, either, as Sherlock had shot it out of the wall a few days ago. Again.)<p>

If Mrs. Hudson had let them in, there would be no knock upon the door, surely she'd come walking right in. But nobody walked in, and the silence of the room was pestilent. Sherlock and I both looked at each other, then I at the door, and it was clear I was to be the one to open it. Cautiously, I stalked towards the door and gave the knob a turn.

The possibility of a threat easily dissolved–not easily, she could've been a threat by herself–shut up Sherlock, it was clear she was still young – possibly in her late twenties – and completely unarmed. She sent the both of us a friendly smile.

"Do you know where Mrs. Hudson keeps the spare keys?"

The both of us blinked in response–_no we didn't, _you_ did, John_–and before Sherlock could formulate a response I beat him to it.

"How did you get in here?"

"You keep a spare key taped to the inside of the rain gutter." I glanced behind me to notice that Sherlock was still eyeing her warily, the way a cat watches a mouse.

"Clearly," he responded, sounding annoyed. "John knows nothing of the element of camouflage. If you must know, it was his idea."

My eyes darted back and forth between them. "How did you know where I hide my key?"

The stranger gave me a _duh_ look, mirrored by Sherlock's. Suddenly feeling compelled to not appear as the stupidest individual in the room, I backpedalled. "Ah, never mind."

"I hide my key in the rain gutter," said the stranger. "It's the next best place after underneath the welcome mat."

"You came up rather quietly," Sherlock notes, eyeing his violin with boredom. "The fourth step is especially squeaky."

The stranger shrugs, then sends me a smile. "Sorry, have we met?"

"I don't think so, no." I give her a bewildered stare, before offering my hand and a small smile. "John Watson, nice to meet you."

She sends me a meek smile in return. "I'm Bridget. Most call me Bri. And this is...?"

"John's the good-looking one," Sherlock says, waving a hand dismissively and turning his attention back to his violin. It reminded me of a kid playing with his toys when the adults are having a dinner party.

I let out a sort of half-chuckle before vaguely wondering whether or not that's actually a compliment or an insult. You'd be surprised; sometimes the best things are insults to Sherlock, whose priorities are unknown.

Bridget shrugs. "You seem pretty dishy yourself." Wow. Did she actually say that?

She chuckles and it's then that I realize I spoke aloud. "Yes." Bemusement plays along in her tone. "Mrs. Hudson told me about the two of you." There is a twinkle in her eye as she speaks. I'm just about to ask her how she and Mrs. Hudson met, since I've heard the two of them are meant to be friends, but Sherlock rudely interrupts.

"'Dishy' is hardly a flattering adjective coming from a open homosexual."

Bridget's smile vanishes. "And do you have a problem with that?" she asks seriously.

"If not for your apparent low-education, desperation to impress and frankly rudimentary personality, I'd call you boring–but even that would be a compliment. Your homosexuality is the cherry atop of all that." Sherlock sends her a false smile and a wink, then picks up his violin bow and begins to scratch out a noisy tune. I stare at him in horror, noting the tears rising in Bridget's eyes.

I expect an immediate exit–maybe a shout of disgust–but Bridget doesn't move. Instead, she wills away her tears, somehow, then sits down in my chair. "Why don't you sit down, John?" she asks, coolly, as if she has known me for three years. I take a seat on the coffee table, watching as her eyes bore into Sherlock.

"Tell me, where did your parents find you; the ten cent store?" she asks.

I choke on thin air, almost comically.

"Coming from the poster child for abortions," Sherlock snorts.

"You'd look smashing in a strait jacket."

"And you're living proof that the human body can survive without the brain."

I feel as if I'm watching a rapid-fire battle. My instincts make me want to dash to my room and retrieve my gun–but at this moment I am persuaded to stare. The responses are so heavy and fast that I wonder if they've secretly met and planned out a script.

"I didn't realize I'd stepped into a mental institution."

"Then you'll be happy to call this home."

"If you published an autobiography, the title would be 'Life of a Dickhead'."

"I'd extend the same compliment to you, only I believe you are incapable of publishing any work written in English."

"I know why you hate me so much-it's because I'm wearing insect repellant."

"And you have a personality not even a mother could love."

"My mother's dead."

"I don't blame her, if I had to live with you I'd die too," Sherlock snaps.

Silence. This time Bridget actually looks stunned. I am too. It was personal and a low move.

"And don't expect me to apologize for insulting your mother. After all, you've never apologized to the world for being a homosexual idiot."

Bridget grits her teeth together, and I know the dramatic exit is coming now.

Nothing happens. The look of anger vanishes from her face and she looks positively amused. "I'll see you around, then?"

Sherlock smiles. "Certainly."

She extends her hand, and then, to my utter and complete confusion... Sherlock _shakes_ it. Actually shakes it, and she beams and practically skips out of the flat.

I have to press my teeth together to prevent my jaw from falling on the carpet. "What was that?"

When I finally look back at Sherlock, his hands are folded under his chin and his eyes are twinkling. "Something new."

It's hours later when I realize she never returned my spare key.

* * *

><p>AN: Also, if anything seems sketchy, just know that not every word from the story is plucked out of their mouths in the reality of their conversation with Lestrade. Some of it's mixed with John's inner thoughts-it's really more of a story than it is of a transcript of all John's telling Lestrade (and that Sherlock is barging in on).<p>

R&R... And this was inspired by a dream. :D


	2. Chapter Two

The second meeting with Bridget Gage came unexpectedly. I was draining the final vestiges of my tea, and Sherlock was using a glass stirring rod to idle spurts of liquid inside a beaker. Once again, there was a tentative knock upon the door and I opened it to find a sheepish-looking woman clad in an illogical white trench coat. I could hardly imagine the sense–it practically _pleaded_ to be stained.

"I forgot to give you back your spare key," she said, holding out the piece of metal apologetically. "I guess that was kind of dumb of me, huh?" She sent me a tentative smile.

"Yes, it rather was," came Sherlock's voice from the kitchen. Only he was no longer in the kitchen, a predatory smirk upon his face as he moved towards the two of us. Oh, no. I was in absolutely no mood to stand by and watch another one of their... Well, _contests_.

"Sherlock and I were just about to go for dinner, actually." I sent her my most genuine grin, ignoring the _what-the-hell-are-you-talking-about-John-I-never-agreed-to-this_ look Sherlock was likely sending me. "Would you like to join us?"

Her eyes lit up as if fire was reflected in them. "Oh, yes, if you don't mind. Do you know any good places nearby?"

"Angelo's," Sherlock says, coolly.

I know he's doing this just to get on my nerves. He clearly disapproves of the fact that I've taken a liking to Bridget–purely platonic, of course, but knowing Sherlock's possessiveness, I don't put it past him to play dirty. After all, Angelo still lives under the assumption Sherlock and I are boyfriends, and, well...

"Actually, I know this great Chinese place," I directly say to Bridget. There will be no worming your way out of this one, Sherlock. I'm putting my foot down. "And it's nearby."

Bridget beams. "Brilliant. I'll go grab some of my things, then I'll be back." She sends me a smile, then nods at Sherlock and scuttles out the door, closing the door behind her quietly.

I smile even as she's out of sight, and it takes me a few moments to notice the glare Sherlock is directing towards me. "What?"

He squints, as if he's straining to see something right in front of his face. "You like her."

"Yes," I respond, cautiously.

"Why?" I'm almost mad, but he has that same curiosity in his tone that reminds me of when something genuinely puzzles him and he regards it with the eyes of a kid. So, I take in a deep breath and answer truthfully.

"Because she's nice, she lives nearby and she's a sweet girl."

"She's in her twenties," Sherlock tells me in disbelief, like I'm being remarkably stupid right now. He actually glances around the room, like he's glad nobody's around to see me being so stupid. "She's hardly a girl."

I bite my lower lip. I'd forgotten to bring it up, about Sherlock's comments about her being a homosexual on the last visit. I'd been more confused about what I had missed and still seen happen directly in front of my eyes, and by the time I'd come to grasp that concept the other had slipped my mind totally. Now, the more I thought of it, it was back in full force and still burning.

"The things you said last time you were here..." he meets my gaze with the cold precision he uses to study corpses, and I resist the urge to shiver, "do you really dislike her because of her sexuality?"

The answer is cold, sharp, quick, and brutal. "Yes."

"So you're a homophobe." The sentence comes out shaky, and I half spit out the last word.

"Yes." I hate him for having that answer. I just can't comprehend why such an amazing, incredible, gifted, brilliant man can judge someone just by seeing them. Although, if I do think about it, he's always done that. Always looked at someone and seen right through them... But what is it that makes him look at someone and hate them without even bothering to find out who they are first? What is it that makes a puzzle not worth Sherlock's time?

As if he's reading my thoughts, he answers the question I need answered most. "It's because they're so _proud_ and people hate them regardless."

I frowned. If I didn't know better, I'd almost say that was an exact description of Sherlock and his work. Always bragging, always deducing everyone around him–and yet, I was the only one who seemed to see him as he truly was. For not the first time, I wondered if the Sherlock I met was even the real Sherlock. If the man beneath him was hidden under layer after layer, walls up, guard up. It wouldn't be impossible. It wouldn't be improbable, either, I thought.

"And yet, most love that they can be who they are," Sherlock adds.

I'm still processing that sentence when the door opens again. It's Bridget, but this time she's wearing a much more practical dark gray coat and heralds a handbag. "Just grabbed some of my things from the flat," she explains.

"Of course. Shall we make our departure?"

I'm still half-trapped in the conversation from earlier, and I decide I will make my best effort to remember it and tuck it away for later.

The cab ride is remarkably quiet. Sherlock sits in the front and Bridget and I sit in the back. She's doing something on her phone–maybe texting her girlfriend. She's not stunning, but it's highly likely she has a partner. In the front seat, I can see Sherlock's eyes are closed. In his mind palace, then. Since everyone seems to have found something to do, I content myself with watching the world fly by. We're nearly there when I feel a tap on my shoulder and I turn my head.

"This is my dog, Bertie," she says, showing me a picture of a Welsh terrier. She smiles, almost wistfully. "He turns four in a week."

I send her a smile. Mentally, I am almost in pain. I'm reminded of a girlfriend I had once, before Afghanistan; always on her phone, taking photos of things and showing me pictures of her many pets. I don't see the point of Bridget showing me a photograph of her dog, but as she continues to speak I become aware that she is trying to make a point. Maybe it's intended for Sherlock? His eyes are open now and he seems to be watching the road.

"I had to leave him behind when I moved," she's explaining. "He's with my friend in Cardiff."

"You moved here from Cardiff?"

She nods. "Suddenly someone you love dies, and the small town that was big enough for everyone becomes too small too fast." She's still smiling, but her eyes look sad. I've seen that look on Sherlock's face. For some reason, it doesn't look fitting on her. "I used to take all these pictures with my phone when I lived in Cardiff," she continues, to fill the following silence. "Sometimes, when I'm sad, I like to go all the way to the first one and scroll to the last one I took. It makes me feel like I'm traveling in time."

It was an odd comparison, old photos to traveling in time, and, at the same time, rather poetic. I understood her need for normalcy, and the same need to get away from it all. I joined the army to get myself killed. It was only fitting I was still here.

When I glance back at her, I notice she is staring at the screen of her iPhone. "The new iPhone came out," she says, quietly. "I think I'll get it tomorrow. This one's getting outdated."

_The pictures_, I almost say, then inwardly chastise myself. Of course she doesn't want her old pictures anymore. The point of renewal is to forget the old, after all.

I place my hand on her shoulder. I'm not quite sure why I did it, and we're both startled by it, but then she seems to relax and I do, too. I am blissfully unaware of the rest of the cab journey, content to leave my hand on her shoulder and watch the world roll by.


	3. Chapter Three

When we arrive at the restaurant, Sherlock is the first out of the cab, and I am the second. I turn to pay, only to see Bridget has already done so and is standing on the pavement behind me, wearing a grin. All traces of the past conversation seem to have dissipated into the night air the moment we left the cab. Sherlock and I run often. I can see Bridget does the same.

Over dinner, not much is spoken aloud. Bridget and I make small talk about our work–turns out, she's actually an ex-psychiatrist, now working in metaphysics–with Sherlock intervening in the process with sharp remarks towards Bridget. Strangely enough, she is the first person I've met who seems to take Sherlock's remarks in her stride.

Halfway through dinner, I ask Bridget if she has anyone, and Sherlock immediately stiffens, scoots out of the booth (by ushering me out) then darts out the door. Bridget's reaction is hardly unexpected. Anger flares across her face, followed by annoyance, and, then, strangely, understanding. Does she really understand Sherlock after meeting him twice?

It's taken me years to understand Sherlock, and, even then, his antics leave me dizzied and confused at times.

"Sorry," I tell her, apologetically. "He... does that. Sometimes."

Strangely enough... she _smiles_, as if I've told her a joke. "No, he doesn't." Before I can inquire as to what she means by that, she's already chewing a mouthful of food, expression thoughtful. Her eyes are seemingly blank. I've eaten a forkful of my food when she adds, "Just around people like me."

This time, I am on top of it. "He doesn't mean it like that."

She looks surprised now. "You mean he's not a homophobe?" I'm not sure how to react to that. "He is," she muses, "I suppose. Homophobia loosely means hating someone because they are what they are. Then again, not many people can be themselves."

The silence following that is unaccustomed and new. It is thoughtful, rather than held in anticipation like compressed air. Silences around Sherlock are different, like a candle has sucked all the oxygen from around me. This one is doting, gentle, and sincere in its noisiness.

We finish eating that way, parting ways and waving at one another as we enter our separate flats. Smiling, I enter 221B to find Sherlock lying on the couch, the telly playing a rerun of _Doctor Who 2005_.

"That," I say, almost immediately, "was very rude, Sherlock."

He makes a sort of shrugging motion–which I deem difficult, since he's lying down–and rolls to his side. "She insulted me. I insulted her back. Isn't that what I normally do?"

"Except," my tone is firm as I move towards the detective lying crumpled on the sofa, "she never said anything to you."

He waves his hand dismissively, the same way he does when shooing away pointless theories. "She didn't have to."

"Why," I pause, "do you hate her so much?"

"I've answered your frankly tiring questions, John, and seeing as I barely find resolve in your convoluted reiterations, I'm heading to my room to study the anatomy of worms. Good night."

The door closes behind him with a bang that could've shaken the entire building, and I find myself sitting on the coffee table, rubbing my knuckles against my forehead. "Jesus," I mutter to the flat.

Of course, the flat doesn't respond.

* * *

><p>"Are you?" Lestrade asks.<p>

"Am I what?" Sherlock retorts.

"A homophobe," Lestrade says. He sounds disappointed when he adds, "it's perfectly all right if you are, but..." His voice trails off, as if meeting a dead end, and he shrugs.

Sherlock doesn't respond to that.

* * *

><p>"I brought you some tickets to see <em>Les Misérables<em>," Bridget tells us on her third visit. She looks sheepish, as she normally does upon entering her flat. "I was going to go with a couple of friends, but they had... other plans. I was wondering if you wanted to come with."

During the matinee of _Les Mis_, Sherlock actually _falls asleep_ halfway through. Bridget is gleeful, happily pointing out the actors and actresses onstage. "That's Ramin Karimloo," she whispers to me, pointing at_ Jean Val Jean_. "The greatest Jean Val Jean ever."

He is very good.

When I glance over to Sherlock to see his reaction, he actually looks right back at me. Vaguely, I wonder if he's watching Bridget and I more than the musical itself.

When it's done and we go outside for autographs from the cast, I catch Sherlock staring at Bridget again. His expression is blank. I wonder, as I mostly do, what he might be thinking at this very moment.

When I turn to ask for an autograph, and then turn back, Sherlock and Bridget have both vanished, and I groan and set off to find them. I finally prevail around the corner from the theatre. Bridget's face is slightly red. Sherlock's expression is mundane and calm. "This is why you're still in the friendzone," I manage to hear her snap. Sherlock opens his mouth to say something, but seemingly becomes aware of my presence and turns.

"Ah, hello, John," he greets me.

Bridget actually looks like she's about to punch Sherlock right in the face. I hardly blame her. I wonder what Sherlock's said now.

"Goodbye, John, goodbye, _Sherlock_," she hisses, and storms off before I can stop her. I angrily turn to Sherlock.

"For God's sake, Sherlock, what have you done now?" If I wasn't completely furious with him, I might've noticed his apparent sadness then, but, as things were, I didn't. "She was the best neighbor to move in here and _you_–" I jab a finger at him to emphasize, "scared her off!"

A few people are watching us now, but I hardly care. The glass has filled with liquid and tipped. I am beyond myself with anger. Everything that Sherlock's ever done to upset me is coming back, each memory hitting me like a bullet, each rude phrase or rude comment worse than the last. The entirety of Sherlock's bad side is finally beginning to snowball and _by God_ it just keeps on getting worse and _worse_. Every rude comment Sherlock has ever made on my intelligence, my training and even my appearance comes to mind. And, as if Sherlock wants to make things _worse_, worse than they already are, he gives me a bored expression and says, actually _says_, "Oh. You're having one of your _moods_ again."

That is it. That is the final straw. "Yes, Sherlock, I am having a mood. Some actual, human beings with _feelings_ have them sometimes when rude, ignorant, _homophobic_ prats piss them off by treating them like _dirt_."

With that, I make my exit, calling out for a cab and ignoring Sherlock's presence behind me. I ride to Baker Street alone, muddled thoughts swimming through my head. I'm sitting on the couch when Sherlock comes home.

We don't speak to each other until the next day, when the milk is out.


	4. Chapter Four

On Bridget's fifth visit, she takes us to see Phantom of the Opera. Sherlock stays silent the entire time through, quietly eyeing Bridget–which I find highly suspect and unusual. A few times, I catch him looking at me. That's not unusual, actually. I've seen him looking at me many times when he thinks I can't notice (which is odd, because why would he bother to look at me when he already knows everything about me?). And… there's the look on his face, when he does look at me. Like _I'm_ the one who's amazing. As if _I'm_ the genius and he's the crippled ex-army doctor who follows him around.

When he catches me looking back at him, his gaze drops and he turns his attention back to the singers on the stage, every time. It's as if he's searching for something, something that will explain away a murder or solve a case, and that something can only be found in me.

It's positively _unnerving_.

Still, besides Bridget's occasional 'field trips', as I like to call them, nothing much changes around 221B. Sherlock still complains about his inevitable boredom, we bicker about the anatomy experiments in the freezer; and, one time, _in my tea._ Mrs. Hudson mothers the two of us, as does Mycroft, and Lestrade comes to ply us with clues, riddles, questions and puzzles. Bridget's appearance does little to change our lives as it is, save for the rare moments when I wonder if Sherlock would still want to be friends with me if I were gay. Not that I am, of course. I just feel as if I've finally discovered the only thing that could ever drive Sherlock away from me. Of course, it's not a problem I have, so I don't have to worry about it. I'm not gay.

Except Bridget _is_.

And this becomes more clear then ever when, on her seventh visit, she takes us to a cafe and a man tries to chat her up. She rejects him, forwardly declaring that she's gay. Her forwardness astonishes me. It's not the first time I've ever seen someone so open about their sexuality – Harry was always open after she came out – but I've seen Bridget clam up around strangers. Her boldness is a shock, especially about such a personal subject. The guy looks completely disappointed – and it could be an overreaction from me, but maybe a little _disgusted_. I don't have much time to read his expression because he leaves and Bridget sips up the rest of her tea, and convinces Sherlock and I to go for a walk while she pays the bill. Well, I say 'convince'. With Sherlock, it was more of a 'coerce'.

Still, we do, and the several times I catch Sherlock glancing behind him towards the cafe seems to ignite the urge at the bottom of my gut to ask him that one question that's been plaguing my mind for the past couple of weeks. Finally, I can hardly hold it in anymore, and I blurt out, "Do you love her?"

Sherlock seems to pause for a moment, but he catches himself and resumes his regular walking pace. "It hardly matters."

I stare him right in the eyes. I'm sure if I force him to look at me he can't speak anything other than the truth. "It does to me," I say firmly.

His eyes flicker over to mine, then move front once more. "Why should my preferences concern you?"

I exhale slowly. "Is this the reason you've been treating her badly, Sherlock?"

He does not answer me.

"If it is, you do realize that it won't bring her any closer to you?"

"Why would I want to bring her any closer to myself?" he finally responds. It's then I think I understand it. He doesn't want to love. He doesn't want to care for Bridget. It's why he pushes her away.

So why hasn't he pushed _me_ away yet?

"But you do love her," I prod, just for confirmation.

"While your obsession with my love life is flattering, John, I must ask you to refrain from making any more personal inquiries. As such, I will tell you that I do not have nearly enough evidence to give you an affirmative."

I inhale, then exhale slowly. _Gather up all your fears to yourself, then let them all float away. Watch them drift out of your reach._

"You said you were married to your work," I say, choosing my next words with caution. I am not sure how else to word it.

"While I strain to divorce myself from the emotional idiots who wander the planet, I am not entirely above human emotions." He looks at me then, like he's just revealed something to me that I never knew before.

"I know."

His brow furrows. "But do you?"

I think about it, then start again. "I know you feel a lot more than you let on. I know you think that pretending not to feel makes things easier – which is _wrong_ – and I know you can't understand why anyone else would ever want to be brought down by their emotions."

He looks slightly surprised. I am, too, but for a different reason. I always assumed he knew I understood him better than any of the idiots at Scotland Yard – but then his face clouds over and it's clear that he's just confirmed something. It makes me nervous, to know I'm the sole center of his attention for once. It's unnerving, and at the same time, slightly exhilarating._ Jesus Christ_. I inhale again and find we've walked around the entire block and ended up back at the cafe. Bridget glances at the two of us, and I wonder if she _knows_ somehow. If she does, she doesn't say anything of it, just ushers us off to see _Wicked_.

We all walk back to Baker Street afterwards, Sherlock standing in between Bridget and I. "I'm… not really sure how to say this," she admits, when we reach the step just outside 221B. "Well, you're the first real friends I've had in a while." I'm so focused on what she is saying that I don't bother to turn and see what Sherlock's reaction to this is. "I've never been the type of person who has many friends," she adds. "But… I really seem to enjoy myself in your presence. And, I mean, I've read your blog. The two of you must be awfully busy all the time. So, thanks. It means a lot to me." She sends me a slight smile at this, and then the smile slips off her face as she gives Sherlock a serious nod. It's then that I recall his presence, and I glance at his expression. It's completely blank. I see nothing gained from watching Sherlock out of the corner of my eye, so, instead, I turn my attention back to Bridget and return her smile.

"It's no problem, really. Besides, it's great getting to know someone other than this git." I motion towards Sherlock, who frowns.

"Great. I'll see you around, then?"

"Of course," I tell her. "Any time. Well, permitting we aren't chasing the criminals of London across rooftops," I add, jokingly. An awkward silence passes as she doesn't seem to find any humor in my statement.

"Well, I'll see you guys later, then," she finally says.

"Good night, Bridget," Sherlock responds, before I have the chance to open my mouth. Bridget gives him a very serious look. I am stuck somewhere between watching the two of them have an entire conversation with no words. Strangely enough, despite Sherlock's apparent homophobia (or his possible crush on her), they seem to have a deep understanding of each other. I can't even begin to comprehend what it is, or how it began in the first place. I'm just the bystander that knows of its existence, but not how to accept it.

"Good night, Sherlock," she says, then drops her gaze and sends a smile in my direction. "Good night, John."

Before I can decide what I want to say, she's already entering the flat opposite us, her ridiculous white coat billowing behind her in a fashion that much reminds me of Sherlock.

I don't mention it.

* * *

><p>AN: Eek, sorry for the wait. Apparently 14-year-old FanFiction authors actually have to spend their time going to this horrible place called <em>school<em>... Dreadful business, isn't it? Absolutely dreadful.

R&R... I don't bite, I swear! (Well, not unless you'd like me to...)


End file.
